Walking home one evening this week I felt the first chill of a frost in the air. I had a moment of sadness as I realized that by morning the nasturtiums would be a soupy mush. I love their guts at this time of year, making a last mad dash growth spurt, leggily scrambling higher up supports where they brazenly lean out to trumpet their presence with bright globular leaves and bold brassy flowers.
I rallied the troops and everything tender and succulent was carried into the house. I feel a sudden urge of protectiveness towards them, they need nurturing. Now they perkily sit at the kitchen window looking out from their safe cosy environment, watching the garden as it closes down for the months ahead.
For several years I got out of houseplants, I rather despised them and dismissed them for their utter unchanging slowness. These transplanted refugees have unexpected delights, and I am enjoying having them in the house. During the long winter months I can take time to see the close up detail, the meticulous precision, the swirls and rosettes, the colours and chalky bloom.
Great for random still lifery.